


Let's See

by kylosbrickhousebody



Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Bar Room Brawl, Drunken Flirting, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, I'll update tags and ratings as things progress, Logan Lucky - Freeform, Poverty, Reylo - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, clyde bout dat explicit consent lyfe, technically implied/past domestic violence but wont be described at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-29 22:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13936347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylosbrickhousebody/pseuds/kylosbrickhousebody
Summary: Gemima (Rey/Reader/OC-adjacent) moves to Danville, West Virginia on a wild bid for a fresh start in life. Settling into her new home, she visits the town bar to drown her sorrows. That's where she first meets Clyde Logan (Adam Driver/Kylo Ren/Ben Solo-adjacent). The two hit it off immediately, though they both have complicating factors in their lives. Will they overcome their problems and find love?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, just some general things: numero uno, ABSOLUTELY DO NOT COME FOR ME BECAUSE THIS IS ALSO TAGGED AS STAR WARS. These characters are *totally* Rey and Ben Solo if you want them to be. So, like, preemptively: chill out. Second, this fic will eventually be updated to Explicit for smut reasons, but I don't anticipate the smut I'll write will actually be too explicit/graphic. Unlike other fics I've written, I'm planning to keep the sexual elements in this one pretty vanilla/loving. Also, tw: for this chapter containing kinda-descriptions of violence (nothing I consider that graphic, honestly. Like, some dudes punch some other dudes. That's it.)
> 
> This story is (1) coming from my creepy love for Logan Lucky that I just discovered today and (2) from some things I've been grappling with in my own life. I grew up kinda-poor; I mean, we were never super bad off, but I definitely related to some of the subtle things in the film (just general lack of resources, small town gossip and problems, stereotype threat, etc. I've been struggling with these things because, well, my life got a whole lot better--which is not a thing I expect any kind of sympathy or pity for, obviously, nor am I asking for it. But when you come from a place that's so down-on-your-luck, there's kind of this tremendous guilt when you finally "make it" -- even if you're doing everything you can to give back.
> 
> I especially feel this way right now because my (getting serious) boyfriend is from a pretty-wealthy family. Hearing his experiences and memories of growing up really kind of underscored all the problems and things I faced in mine (and never even realized). That lack of opportunity can really affect the way we perceive ourselves, which in then colors everything else we do. I've been looking for compelling stories to help me process these feelings, but I've been falling a bit short: a lot, including most of the current Reylo/etc fics--including mine--feature at least one character who just has a lot of money and makes problems go away. I really wanted to write characters where NO ONE had money, and all the joy and pain that comes with that (there is some joy). I think, fundamentally, that's what this fic is going to be about; people who love each other despite their complete lack of money and reasonable opportunities to get it. These kinds of people are so underrepresented in media, and I think that lack of representation is a huge part of the political divide we're seeing in the U.S., where disenfranchised people--like the boys introduced in this chapter--vote out of fear/some visceral reaction borne of self-hatred and frustration. 
> 
> Not that my fic will solve any of that, of course. But it'll make ME feel a little better, and give ME the chance to write characters I think are interesting, and give ME an opportunity to work through some of these feelings and really think about where I come from a little bit more. And that's enough of a reason for me. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments, I love reading y'alls thoughts.
> 
> For related moodboards, see: https://www.pinterest.com/Kylosbrickhousebody/
> 
> For related Reylo/Kylo playlists (there's one for this fic!), see: https://open.spotify.com/user/2lsivtn9heztapydvsgoky2x6?si=g2ndlw4vTUCQFqnK4iQtlA  
> or  
> spotify:user:2lsivtn9heztapydvsgoky2x6
> 
> Tumblr: https://kylosbrickhousebody.tumblr.com/

She opened the door and crossed its threshold.

Ah, fuck. She should’ve known that any place named ‘Duck Tape’ would be like this: old and musty, the bright lights of the bar promising more than it could give. She looked ‘round the room and frowned; a few men sat around in work pants and knock-off Payless ‘timbs, no doubt fresh off a shift at some local mine. It reminded her too much of home. She knew men like this—men who, surely, had just voted for Trump (if they’d voted at all). Ah well, all she really needed was a quick drink and then she’d head out.

The young woman shoved her hands in her jeans pockets and covered the distance to the bar. One of the ubiquitous miner-men was—apparently—arguing with the bartender; the two were leaned into each other, exchanging harsh whispers and knowing glares. The taller of the two stood behind the bar, dark, shoulder-length hair curling at the nape of his neck. His opponent sat across from him on the other side of the bar, his lighter dirty-blonde cut much shorter. At least the bar itself was empty, save for these two. She closed the remaining gap and sat down a few places away; it always seemed rude to sit too close to anyone when there were so many open seats. The men stopped talking anyways.

“Sorry boys, I didn’t mean to interrupt ya.”

The man on her side of the bar flashed smile and nodded in silent acknowledgement.

“No worries, little lady. It’s not you,” he inclined his head towards the bartender then, “it’s this ‘un.”

She smiled back, eyes flicking to the darker-haired man. “Gettin’ into trouble?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He extended his hand, placing a small napkin in front of her in lieu of a coaster. She noticed, then, that he had in fact extended his _only_ hand—the other sported an oversized prosthetic, belted to what must’a been a stub of an arm. A little pang of pity shot through her. The plastic fingers of the faux arm were molded together; surely he lacked the dexterity to grip things properly. She dragged her eyes away from it just as quickly, pity replaced instead by guilt. She was sure he was more than capable—and just as sure that he was used to people viewin’ him as a spectacle. Probably hated it, too. Rightfully so.

“What do ya like?” he drawled, meetin’ her eyes graciously when she managed to stop starin’.

“Oh, uh, just a gin and tonic, please and thank you.” She’d tried to sound undistracted, as though she’d never given his missin’ hand a second thought.

The man a few seats down from her chuckled lightly. “Please _and_ thank you? Now that’s a rare ‘un these days. Somebody’s momma raised her right.”

The smile returned to her face, bowin’ her head a little in thanks. “She’d be real glad to hear that.”

He returned her smile, gulped down the last of his drink, and stood up.

“Right then,” he said to the man behind the bar, even pointin’ a finger at him, “imma go to my satellite office and then you an’ me’ll talk some more later on.”

She watched him walk away and through a door marked as the men’s room. She snorted. ‘Satellite office’.

A gin and tonic appeared in front of her when she’d turned back to the bar, pushed forward by a hand wearing a silver ring. “Thanks,” she murmured, glancing up at him again. She cocked her head to the side slightly, as if it was the first time she’d seen him. He was handsome, you know—in a weird way. A too-big face, long nose, little moles peppered across his features like beauty marks. Framing full lips, a trimmed mustache and a goatee. It wasn’t a bad look. Not a bad look at all.

“Are ya married?”

He looked up in surprise; he’d been starin’ at the floor. “No, why?”

She nodded towards the ring.

“Ya know it’s bad luck to drink alone,” she started, a slight purr in her voice. She looked around at the otherwise-empty bar, then back at him. “Why don’t ya pour yourself one on me, so ya don’t jinx me?”

The man’s stiff façade broke then, crackin’ into a little smirk. He turned and grabbed a glass from a shelf above his head; she, meanwhile, rolled her eyes at herself. Why’d she always have to skip right to flirtin’?

He set his glass down in front of her. “I woulda remembered if you’d ever been in the bar before,” he said with a curious smile, pouring out another well drink. “Are you jus’ passin’ through?”

Mhm. He spoke in a long, slow Southern drawl. Well, more Southern than her own at least. It had an oddly charmin’ quality to it. Hillbilly through and through, yeah—but a charmin’ hillbilly.

“Yeah, I guess, just passin’ through. But I’m hopin’ to stay a while.”

He set down a bottle of gin, raisin’ his eyebrows in some mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Well, then, here’s to stayin’ a while.” He lifted his glass, eyes soft with a little hint of transparent admiration as he toasted with her. A blush of color crossed her cheeks; she diverted her eyes away from his warm, brown ones to stop her schoolgirl crush from showin’ too much.

They sipped on their drinks, oblivious for a moment to the world. A new song started on the jukebox, filling the air with an old-timey kind of saloon vibe.

“I’ve always thought Patsy Cline songs are a lil sad. You sad about somethin’, Mr. Bartender?” she teased.

A little glimmer appeared in those deep, kind-lookin’ eyes. They looked a little out of place, what with his height and broad shoulders and all. A gentle giant, she supposed. She liked lookin’ at him—probably a bit too much, she reminded herself.

“Only that I didn’ meet ya sooner, pretty lady.”

She blushed openly, hiding what she could of her face behind the glass. Yeah—he was a real charmer for sure. Real smooth-like.

She opened her mouth to spout some other flirtatious thing when the door swung open.

“The dirty big secret is that I’m the real asset in this scenario,” a British accent started. Not a very nice-soundin’ one, she thought. Not like her bartender. She pouted at him, though his attention was now firmly focused on the men entering his dive. She was, secretly, glad to see that he looked as annoyed at havin’ company as she felt.

Three men walked across the threshold towards the pair, each in a red and black leather jacket, each with progressively more obnoxious embellishment. Ugh, how gaudy.

The man behind the bar glanced down and frowned at her, as if in apology. She rolled her eyes, nodding towards the men.

“—it’s not Dayton White. Right? And the simple fact is, I’d be driving that car myself if my day job wasn’t running a billion-dollar company.”

She groaned under her breath, stealin’ another look at the newest customers. Yeah, they smelled of money and reeked of entitlement. She took a large swig of her drink; she hated men like this. Knew ‘em just as well as the miner types.

“And by the way, it was my understanding that this was America, people.” Her bartender started to count out three napkins for the men, slidin’ them in front of the stools they’d stopped at—the ones right next to her. “So them trying to muzzle the company that I created in America is a violation of my free speech. And plus—plus, two of those kids only had one kidney to begin with. So why isn’t anybody writing about that? Right? It’s total BS.”

Lord. Bless their hearts. She swigged the rest of the drink and swallowed it down. Hopefully the gin would be kind and kick in real fast.

“What do ya like?” the gentle giant asked.

The most obnoxious man—the one who’d ranted about nothin’ important, dressed in the worst-lookin’ jacket—took one look at the only interestin’ man in the room and immediately snickered down at his left arm.

“Oh,” he chuckled in the most annoyin’ way she’d swear she ever heard, “I just thought of this great song title. ‘The Kindness of a One-Armed Bartender.’”

She groaned audibly and huffed in disapproval.

The man behind the bar hung his head for a moment but, to his credit, received them just as graciously as he’d waited for her to come ‘round. “All right, no. See, I got two arms,” he started, soft-spoken, doin’ his due diligence to set ‘em straight. He pulled up his sleeve a bit. “See? I’m a transradial amputee. So it’s my lower forearm and hand that’s missin'.”

“My mistake,” the British man said, pressin’ his hand to his chest in insincere apology.

“I’m very lucky,” the man behind the bar reflected, givin’ his arm a grateful look. She melted a little bit, suddenly a little grateful he was too distracted to notice.

“I guess I can settle for a Stoli, extra dry, two olives. Can you handle that?”

She rolled her eyes again. ‘Can you handle that’. Jesus.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, a thin layer of offense-taken now linin’ his words, “Up, or on the rocks?”

“Up,” the rich man said, quite as though he was commandin’ a dog.

She huffed again, uncomfortable and wholly disapprovin’ of the new company. New company’s attention turned on her.

“Hey, sexy thing.”

She ignored them, pointedly, and instead exchanged looks with man mixin’ the martini.

“Oh, I see,” annoying-ringleader-man continued, “you his? But you see, sweetheart, I got two arms.”

She sucked in air, sittin’ up in surprise. God, he really was unbelievably fuckin’ rude.

“I don’ see anythin’ wrong with him. I see plenty wrong with you,” she spat, one hand around her drinkin’ glass just in case. “And besides, we’re married. And Kyle here—” she nodded her head towards the bartender, whose name was, statistically, almost definitely _not_ ‘Kyle’—“he’s pretty good in fights, so you might wanna lay off.”

Obnoxious-man raised his hands in mock surrender, takin’ an exaggerated step back. His companions slunk back in their chairs, apparently genuinely intimidated by the broad man behind the bar.

He’d watched this exchange with amusement, plush lips giving way to a broad smile. It gave nothin’ away, though; for all anyone knew, it coulda been the smile of a husband watchin’ his loyal wife defend him.

“So, where’s your ring, sweetheart?” Shit. She hadn’t thought of that. Her bartender wore one, but even then, it barely passed as a real weddin’ band. She’d only asked to be totally sure. “You didn’t give the lady a ring?”

“Came from work,” she quipped, characteristically confident-soundin’. “Ain’t no jewelry allowed on the production line.”

Bartender-man finished pouring what was really a pretty impressive martini, all things considered. He pushed it towards the gaudy man, quiet and respectful as ever. The world didn’t deserve him.

The patron brought it to his lips, determined to find some flaw, and set it down again. “Pretty good. Could be colder.”

She rolled her eyes and gave up.

“Ice shortage ‘round here ‘cause-a the water contamination from the chemical plant upstream,” bartender-man explained, impossibly patient.

The first man—the one he’d been arguin’ with when she’d walked in—re-emerged from the back rooms, takin’ the seat he vacated at the bar.

‘Kyle’ nodded his head towards her empty glass, silently askin’ if she’d like another.

“Please.”

British-guy—who didn’t deserve a name as far as she was concerned—looked around then, sensing he was losin’ his spotlight. “Hey, you mind doing that drink ‘fing again? I wanna shoot a post. Got 1.2 million followers. This could make you famous.”

The first man looked up from his drink, starin’ idly at a spot on the opposin’ wall. “How ‘bout he bounce a damn ball on his nose for you next like a trained seal?”

Oh, shit. She looked sideways down the bar. God bless him for sayin’ what she’d wanted to—and better than she would’ve to boot.

The Brit—no-name, she’d labelled him—chuckled pretentiously. “Sorry, you got a problem?”

“Yeah, I got a problem. I take exception to people messin’ with my brother. That’s two tours in Iraq right there,” he said, gettin’ a little quieter. Reverent. “He stepped up when others were steppin’ back. So you need to show a little respect.”

No-name scoffed. “Thank you for your service,” he toasted, “And cheers.” He took another swig of his martini. “So brothers, eh? What with your bum leg, and his missing arm—hand, sorry—the two of you almost add up to one normal person.”

His two silent entourage members laughed compliantly along with no-name. She looked away in disgust; Kyle was hangin’ his head again.

First-man piped up again. “Oh, man, I know who you are. You’re that famous guy on TV with the drink.”

No-name smirked, raisin’ both hands with the jubilation of finally bein’ recognized. “Right you are. I am the guy on TV with the drink, and I am famous. Very, very famous.”

“Hey—can I get a photo with you?” first-man asked excitedly. Ugh. The fickleness of some people.

“Sure, sure,” no-name stood, primping his hair and cycling through potential gestures while the other man wrestled with his smartphone camera.

“The guys at the garbage aren’t gonna believe this.”

“Sure, just make it quick.”

No-name posed for the camera, entirely self-absorbed.

“Wait a second. There we go, good.”

First-man’s finger hovered over the ‘capture button’—until it didn’t. His other arm tensed faster than she could see it and slammed no-name’s face into the counter.

She leapt out of her chair. No-name’s entourage grabbed first-man, one on each arm, startin’ to punch him with their other fists.

“Oh my god,” she yelled, “stop it!”

No-name threw a punch while his posse held the quickly-bruising man as still as they could for the beatdown. His lip split open and started bleedin’ down his shirt. Kyle, meanwhile, uncorked a bottle and wrapped his large hand around it; he started marchin’ towards the steps leadin’ out from behind the bar counter until somethin’ made him freeze.

“Stop it!” the woman screamed, kicking one of no-name’s men hard in the shin. “All of you! Goddamn.” They all froze, then—every man in the bar—dumbstruck.

“Fuck, that’s sexy,” no-name slurred.

“Get out.” She pointed to the door with steadfast sternness, speakin’ in her newfound icy-cold voice. “All three of ya, out.”

None of them budged.

“ _Now! Out!_ ”

“Fuck this,” no-name spat on the floor. “This place isn’t worth jack.”

He turned on one heel and started, for once, doin’ as he was told. His minions mirrored his poor breedin’, spittin’ at her heel before movin’ towards the exit.

“You,” she pointed to first-man, searching—for the first time—for a name.

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy! Well, Jimmy…” she faltered, “well, I mean, you’re right. But you’re still an idiot.” She waved her hands in frustration. “ _Christ_ , sit down.”

She ran one hand through her hair and rounded on the bartender.

He set the bottle down quickly and raised both hands. Wise.

She only huffed.

“Children, all of ya. Swear to god, men. Y’all ain’t got not one ounce of self-control.”

She plopped back down onto her barstool, raised a freshly-topped-off gin and tonic to her lips, and chugged.

Both remaining men watched her put it down, eyebrows on their foreheads. They exchanged half-frightened, maybe-half-aroused looks with each other. Jimmy rose— _he_ didn’t work here—and gave his brother a wary look. “I’ll talk to ya later,” he said, speedin’ towards the door.

She spun around in her barstool and grabbed his upper arm.

“No,” she corrected, spinnin’ him around. “You gon’ go out the back way. I don’t want no parkin’ lot fights, I just don’ have time for that today. Ya hear?”

A sly smile crossed his face. He looked from his brother to the girl and back, as if saying ‘jeez, this ‘un’’.

She let her barstool rotate slowly back around; then she picked up her nearly-empty glass, raised it to her lips, and tapped on the bottom of it ‘til the last drops flowed into her mouth.

She rolled the empty glass in her hands for a few moments before glancing up at the last remaining man. He, after all, couldn’t flee. “I’m real sorry ‘bout them, mister.” Her lips curled into a lil frown. “And my reaction, o’ course.”

He chuckled. God, it sounded nice. The whole atmosphere changed; he seemed to breathe some warmth back into it.

“Ya didn’t do nothin’ wrong, darlin’. An’ I’m sorry too—we didn’ mean to offend ya.”

There was that impossible patience again; she’d just told people to _leave his bar_ —one without even payin’—and he was bein’ understandin’ anyway.

She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “I should go.”

“Hey,” he started, low voice deep and filled with reassurance, “don’t be like that. Me and you was havin’ a good time before they came in, wasn’t we?”

She chuckled once herself and tried to suppress a blush. It spread across her cheeks regardless—an almost-imperceptible light pink flush. But he noticed it—he noticed it for sure.

“There’s a good girl.” He smiled. “Now, I don’ know if you should be havin’ another drink. You’re kind of a lil thing and, well, already a lil spitfire.” He took the glass before she could utter any objections, setting it down into the sink on his side of the bar. Great; she’d been cut off at a bar. In _West Virginia_. By a stranger. A handsome stranger. Ugh. “So why don’t me an’ you just talk til ya ready to go home, lil lady?”

She sighed down into a glass of water he’d set down and told her to drink. She was tryna avoid those eyes of his. She could see his face in her mind’s eye, though, even starin’ into the water. She could see that fine brown-black hair framin’ his face in waves, the top of it brushed back by his hand. She saw, too—in a different way—that same man servin’ out tours of duty in Iraq. It made sense, now: the prosthetic. He’d lost his hand in the line o’ fire. She envisioned the heavy equipment resting on his shoulders, some huge rifle in one hand. _Definitely_ not a man to pity. Not at all.

“Ya got a name, Mr. Bartender?”

He straightened up; he’d been leanin’ against the counter, starin’ at his shoes.

“Mhm hm. Clyde. But you’d know that already, cause we’re married.”

Her brow crinkled. “Wha—”

Oh. That. She giggled; she’d almost forgotten her lil white lie, that vague attempt at tryna avoid harassment by pretendin’ to be another man’s claim. He perked up even more, lettin’ a playful smile cross his face.

“So how long we been married?” he asked.

She snorted and took up the excuse of drinkin’ her water.

“Clyde,” she repeated after takin’ a couple o’ gulps. “Like Clyde Morris.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Yeah, I was named for him. You from around the Virginia area, then?”

She shook her head. “Naw. Just the only Clyde I know. Lots of roads named after him.”

“That there are, miss-lady. That there are.”

She cocked her head to one side, pressing her lips into a line. She hated this; she really did—bein’ attracted to somebody for no good reason at all, no control over it whatsoever. She’d left home to avoid these kinda men, after all. Rednecks an’ the like. Yet here she was, fallin’ pretty easy for the most hillbilly-soundin’ man she ever did hear.

“You got a name, sweetheart?”

She met his gaze. “Mhm hm,” she took a sip of water. “Gemima. But I go by Gemma or Gem, usually, ‘cause I don’ like people makin’ jokes ‘bout the syrup.”

It was his turn to repeat a name. “Gem,” he tried it out, like he was tryin’ to see how it felt in his mouth, “like the gem you are?”

She rolled her eyes. Cheesy. Tactless. A stupid grin covered his face, an’ she was pretty sure she returned it.

“So where you from, then, Miss Gem?”

Her lips drew to one side; suddenly, she looked a lil uncomfortable. “Florida,” she answered evasively. He seemed, more than anythin’, a good judge of people; he didn’ press any further. “I see. Long way from home.”

“Yup, that’s the idea.” She looked into her water, a little sad frown on her face. “What about you?”

“Oh, just here. Danville, Boone County. I ‘spose you don’ know much ‘bout Boone County yet, though, do ya?”

She shook her head.

“Well, stop by again and I’ll tell ya lots.”

“Tryna get rid of me?”

“Not at all, Miss Gem. You can stay ‘til closin’ if you’d like. I know I’d like that. Just tryna plant the idea that you should come back here is all.”

She smiled. He was sweet. Some ex-marine or summat—sweet. A gentleman. A hillbilly gentleman. She sighed; her life-weirdness barometer had already broken, so she guessed it really was time that she let it go.

“Oof,” she said, glancin’ at her watch. “Actually, it prolly is time for me to go. Got work in the mornin’.”

He pouted. Through the caricature expression he wore, she thought she saw some genuine sadness in there—but maybe she was just dreamin’.

She brushed the thought aside and instead started diggin’ in her pocket for some bills. He held his hand up, calloused rough-lookin’. “On the house.”

Gemma hesitated. She knew how men were: always expectin’ somethin-for-somethin. He seemed like he might jus’ be nice, though. Even then, she wasn’t one for charity.

“I can’t—”

“Sure you can, darlin’.”

He didn’t say anythin’ more—no ‘’cause I like ya’ or ‘you can owe me’ jokes accompanied by winks. Just a simple ‘sure you can’.

Her lips twitched; quietly, he thought she was cute. Tryna pay him for her drinks—tellin’ him before that he should drink on her, even. He smiled and shook his head.

“I’ll also accept a kiss on the cheek if it’ll make ya feel better.”

She blushed again, a deeper pink coloring her pretty lil cheeks now. Somethin’ in him just _reacted_ to her. He wished, in that moment, that he was somethin’ more than just a bartender. Somethin’ as excitin’ as she seemed.

She leaned towards him, over the bar, and he leaned down for his kiss. Soft little lips pressed into his cheek; a light little smack left a hint of wetness where she’d touched him. It was his turn to blush.

It felt nice, to kiss someone. She’d missed this, almost—at least, kissin’ somebody she liked. She wouldn’t mind kissin’ those lips—those plush, full, pink—

“Hey,” he drawled, putting his good hand on one of her shoulders and gently pushin’ her back. “How ‘bout this, little lady: next time you come in, if you still want a real kiss before I get any drinks into ya, then we’ll have a real kiss. That sound good?”

She blinked. Oh. Was she bein’ rejected?

No—well, maybe? She wasn’t sure. If it was, at least it didn’t sting.

“Oh. Sure.”

She forced herself to swallow, the light brush of embarrassment heating up her cheeks with a different kinda color.

He hoped he hadn’t offended her; he jus’ didn’ feel right acceptin’ a kiss from a woman who may or may not still be drunk—

“Ya good to drive home?” She nodded. “I don’t wanna hear about any accidents, ya hear?”

“You won’t.” She turned to leave, then turned back just as quick. "You wanna write your number down for me, Clyde?"

He winked at her. "Well, I don't got a mobile phone, but I got a house phone."

"That'll do."

She smoothed down the front of her shirt when she stood, takin’ a few awkward steps towards the door. She didn’ know how you were supposed to end things like this—things where that weird kinda electricity hung in the air.

She stopped, then, and turned on one heel. “You work often, Clyde?”

“From open ‘til close, every day.”

Oh. She blinked.

“See ya soon, then.”

He winked. “See ya, Miss Gem.”


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotify playlist for this fic is up! See first chapter for links.

A ray of light peeked through the blinds and was shinin' across her pillow, onto her eyes. She groaned and rolled over, shoving the pillow over her head to block out all light. Her alarm would start goin’ off soon—it always did, early like this. She liked to set at least five, ‘cause she’d sleep through at least the first two or three. Then, once they’d gone off, she liked to lay in bed for a while.

It’d been difficult to get up in the mornin’ for a good long while now. Years, she woulda guessed. Once she got up and got about her day, things felt a lil better—but getting’ up, that was real hard. She’d think about everything that’d gone wrong the day before, and everything that _could_ go wrong today. The temptation to stay in bed, keep sleepin’, and block everything out—well, that was a real ‘un. It had gotten her several times, too. To be honest, she’d lost some jobs over it.

Today, she knew she couldn’ sleep in. Not again. She stretched out, grabbed the pillow above her head, and pressed it close to her chest. This was her routine; she didn’ wanna move. Not yet. She swallowed, tryna get the acid taste of nighttime drool outta her mouth. She started thinkin’ about the meetin’ with her counselor she had scheduled soon—and everythin’ that could go wrong. It’s just what she did. She was used to things goin’ wrong, after all.

She talked herself into rollin’ over and puttin’ her feet on the ground, at least. The warmth of bed called her back with its own lil siren song. The small cot was pressed up against the wall, the barebones cheap sheets on it just as white as the paint. A small, yellowed lamp sat on the floor next to the only piece of furniture in the room. Later, she’d use it to read; for now, it sat there forgotten.

The meager belongings she’d salvaged from Florida were wrapped up in a potato-sack-lookin’ bag—just some old tote her mama’d had from back in the day. It, like the lamp, was worn and yellowed, barely clingin’ on to life. She didn’t mind; it worked well enough for what she needed it for. It’s not like it was holdin’ anything of value, anyways. Just jeans, a few t-shirts, two pairs of underthings, sneakers, and a Ziploc of toiletries she’d been given when she was admitted to the shelter.

She stood, a lil wobbly on her legs, and held up a hand to her forehead. Jesus; that man made some strong-ass drinks. She shoulda drinken all that water like she was told. That one-armed bartender. Clifford? No, Clyde. Clyde. Like Clyde Morris.

Well, for whatever it mattered, she wasn’t stupid. She knew it was a bartender’s job to be nice and summat—and he had been. Real nice. He’d made her feel a little better about life. Pretty, even. Like a real woman with real feminine charms—or some shit like that. She glanced down at the napkin he’d written his name and a number on. It prolly wasn’t even a real phone number, let alone his. If it was a real one, it was prolly to some hotline or something.

She reached down, pulled it out from underneath her calls-and-texts-only flip phone, and stared for a lil wistful moment. Squiggly handwritin’ spelled out ‘C L Y D E’—all caps for some reason, cause men did that kinda shit—and a number beneath it, written in equally waverin’ strokes. Her lips twitched; she let herself, for a moment, believe it was real. Like he’d really liked her like that. Then she extended her arm towards the trash bin, wantin’ to get rid of what was surely jus’ a reminder of how nobody _really_ wanted her.

But she hesitated. She wasn’t ready, just yet, to forget about Clyde. Even though he was jus’ bein nice, jus’ doin’ his job. She set the napkin back down, this time under her pillow so nobody would be askin’ any questions if they came in for cleanliness inspections. Then she rifled through the potato-sack-lookin’ bag for her clean panties and a shirt to throw on with yesterday’s bra, jeans, and shoes. She’d have-ta be downstairs in a minute if she wanted any food before meetin’ with her counselor.

The food line was less busy this time o’ day, given that she’d woken up later than everyone else as usual. This was pretty early for her, all things considered. One of the many things that would have-ta change if she wanted any kind of good job. But then, did they even have any good jobs ‘round here? There were just jobs. Just jobs. The kind you get a paycheck and bounce.

Today’s line volunteer scowled at her, scrapin’ the metal serving spoon against the bottom of the pan for whatever was left of the ‘eggs’. Every other dish was already out. Served her right for gettin’ up so late. She never seemed to learn her lesson.

Turnin’ away from the servin’ line, she scanned the room for an open seat. The plastic lawn chairs that were pushed up to the rickety tables were Russian roulette rounds—sit in the wrong one, and your ass’ll end up on the floor. She tested some weight on a few of ‘em before findin’ one where all four legs were still in good condition.

When she’d sat down, she poked her fork into the ‘eggs’—porous, creepy-lookin’ devils. They made ‘em from that egg-batter stuff you buy at stores, not real eggs. She could tell. But then, it was food—her only food this mornin’, in fact, other than an energy bar she’d stolen from the gas station. She reminded herself to steal somethin’ fresh next time. Jesus, she shoulda taken a fruit cup or somethin’ at the least.

Breakfast came and went without incident. She didn’t talk to anyone else an’ no one talked to her, per the usual. It wasn’ that kinda place. No one was here to make friends.

She stalked down the hall of the office floor glumly, takin’ a seat outside Miss Vanessa’s office. She picked at her fingers, starin’ into her lap. She had to wait her turn; even though she’d got a scheduled time, there were still others waitin’ before her. Always would be—just the nature of these kinda places. Somebody always had some kinda emergency that needed dealin’ with first.

When it was finally her turn, she plopped down into the threadbare seat without preamble. Time to get this over with.

“So, Gemima, how goes the hunt for work?” Miss Vanessa asked. She was a short, stocky woman, braids falling down her back, the color of her coordinated pantsuit complementin’ her dark skin.

Gem blanched. “Eh, I mean, it’s been hard honestly. Like, you know I found that gas station gig—” the woman nodded “—an’ I took it, so I been doin’ that, ya know? But there’s not a lot in this town, ‘specially not when nobody knows ya, and ya ain’t got no skills. So it’s been hard.” She frowned a little.

 Miss Vanessa frowned, too, peerin’ over her spectacles at the young woman.

“Look, Gemima: you know we love having you here. But you know we got a long waiting list. Two months waitlist. Just because of that – well, you know you’re gonna have to be moving on soon.”

The girl frowned, pressed her lips into a line, and swallowed. Yeah, she knew that.

“Look, I jus’ need some more time—”

“I know. But, well, we’ve been giving you time and—”

She’d thrown up her hands. “What am I supposed to do? I been lookin’ for more work, y’all know that. It’s real hard ‘round here. My boss sayin’ he can’t give me more hours, neither. It’s not like I ain’t tryin’.”

The older woman frowned, too. She shifted forward in her seat, folding one hand over the over on top o’ her scuffed wooden desk.

“Nobody’s saying you aren’t trying, Gemima. It’s just, there’s only so many resources to go around.”

Gemma scoffed, bringing one hand to her teeth to bite on her nails. A little droplet formed in her right eye; she blinked hard until it’d gone.

“Guess I gotta go turn some tricks then—”

“You know that’s against our policies for residents. No—”

“I know, I know. I ain’t done it yet. Jesus.”

The younger woman ruffled in her jeans pockets for her pack of cigarettes and her lighter.

“You know you can’t light up in here.”

She looked up, once, met her companion’s eyes, and clicked the lighter aflame. A puff or two later—it wasn’ like she was keeping track—everythin’ seemed a bit better. Miss Vanessa waved the smoke away from her face with an exaggerated look of disgust. If she wasn’ fixin’ to kick her out before, she prolly was now.

“Right, then, I’ll be sure to go fix all my problems now.”

She pressed her hands down onto the table and pushed herself up. A little bit of ash fell from the end of her cigarette, the only unaffected party in the room. She stomped towards the exit.

“Gem—look—” the woman waited until the girl stopped. More patient than was deserved, really. “There’s this affordable housing down off Price Branch Road—scales with your income and the like. You should take a lot. Jeanie found one at $600-a-month for a trailer.”

The girl half-rolled her eyes, turned, and sauntered out of the room. “Thanks, Vanessa,” she called back as sincerely as she could. The woman was doin’ what she could to help—it’s just that Gemma felt doomed regardless. $600, cheap? She only had twenty hours a week at the gas station, and findin’ another gig was provin’ to be impossible. That wasn’t much on minimum. Even ‘cheap’ was outta her range.

She stomped down the second-floor steps, crossed the threshold as quick as she could, and headed out the front door. Cool, morning West Virginia air met her, chilling her skin, sendin’ up lil goosebumps all-along her arms. She sat on the upper stoop, hauled her knees up to her chest, and puffed her cig. The railin’ was good enough to lean her head against; she sat there a while, too tired already to start tryna get her piece-of-shit car to start—if it even would.

Mhmpf, trailers. That was the kinda thing she’d been tryna avoid. She thought she’d left that life behind—that she’d come here, somewhere totally foreign to her, and make a new life. A nice, comfortable, plush life. She’d have good jobs and a boyfriend who didn’t beat her. Nice n’ easy. It sounded stupid when she thought of it like that. But it’d felt real at the time—like somethin’ she really coulda done. It’d brought her a lot of hope, once. That’s why she was here.

But nothin’ was really so simple, was it? Couldn’ be. Then God wouldn’ be able to get his jollies.

“Goddammit,” she muttered, takin’ another puff. She laid down on the concrete, choosin’ to ignore the awareness of the dirt and grime beneath her head. She stared, instead, up at the sky—big, blue West Virginia sky—

“’Scuse me, ma’am, got sumthin’ ya can spare?”

Gemma jumped and sat up; an even sadder face than her own stared down at her. His long, black-and-grey hair hung in matted strands around a wiry neck; his biker’s vest was many years old by now, torn and worn badly around the seams. His clothes were caked in dirt, from his undershirt to his too-washed-out denim. Everything, the wrong size. He even smelled a little.

She dug into her pockets and pulled out a couple dollars, some nickels and pennies, and the energy bar she’d stashed for later. “’ere,” she said, holdin’ ‘em out to him.

“Oh, ma’am, I don’ wan’ be a problem for ya—”

She waved him away with one hand. “Don’ worry, I got everythin’ I need.”

 

* * *

 

 

He thought he was doing a good job of not thinkin’ about her. In reality, he found himself glancin’ at the bar door every time somebody walked in. When the phone rang at phone, he’d beat Jimmy to it or otherwise pushed him outta the way to answer first. It was always Mellie, though. It’d been five days now, and it’d never been _her_.

He wasn’ surprised, though. A girl like that, well… girls like that weren’ interested in him. And he didn’t blame ‘em, not really. He had baggage, didn’t he, and only one arm to boot. Not a winning combination. She—she was _excitin’_. She did stuff like up n’ root herself from her hometown to start a life somewhere else. All brave n’ the like. Really confident. Nothin’ like him.

He just tended bar—yessir, that’s what he did. Afterwards, he jus’ went home and read. Girls like her, well, she’d be disappointed. She’d want somebody to shoot with her, or take her to derbies, or at least some nice dinners. He couldn’t bear the first—not anymore, not since his service—and he hated the second. As for the third, there just wasn’ the money to be doin’ that.

No, it made no sense to be thinkin’ ‘bout her this much. Girls like that don’ like men like him.

He cleared his throat and pushed the thoughts o’ her outta his mind. His brother’d arrived for his nightly beer.

“Hey, Clyde,” the shorter man said, choosin’ a seat in front of his brother.

“Hey, Jimmy.” He pushed a Miller Lite to him, jus’ like always. His brother raised it to his lips, not botherin’ to pour it out, and took a swig. “So… I been uncoverin’ a lot.”

“Aw shit,” Jimmy whispered under his breath. He sighed and looked away, like he wanted no part of this conversation. He prolly didn’.

“Did you know Aunt Maggie, in 1983, won the lotto, but then washed the ticket—”

“Folktales and backwood gossip,” his brother cut across him, choosin’ a point on the wall to channel his frustrated glare into.

Clyde shook his head a lil, holdin’ tighter on the bottle in his hand without even noticin’. “Well, you gotta admit this kinda stuff don’ happen to normal folk.”

“Not tonight, Clyde. Just—”

Jimmy was rubbin’ his eyes.

“No—there’s a pattern. What with Pappaw’s diamond, Uncle Stickley’s electrocution, Mommy gets sick after Daddy’s settlement—” the older brother was resting his head on the bar now, determined not to hear, “—the roof collapse—”

“Come on, Clyde.”

“—you blow your knee out and a roadside mine takes my arm as I was transpo-in’ out—an’ I was almos’ at the airport.”

The last words came out a lil wistful—he knew how close he’d been to leavin’ Iraq unscathed, normal. Things coulda been so different. He coulda flirted for real with girls like—

“What about Mellie then? Ain’t nothin’ bad ever happened to Mellie.” Jimmy twiddled his thumbs with an indulgent thoughtfulness.

A vague look of fear crossed the younger brother’s face then; he hung his head, starin’ now at the bottle in his hand.

“Hmm? What?”

“You jus’ gave it a mouth—” Clyde looked up, frustrated, then over to his brother. “You need to take it back.”

“Take what—” Jimmy scoffed “—I don’ even know what I’m ‘sposed to be takin’ back.” Clyde looked at him as if he’d done somethin’ dangerous. “Look, Clyde: you gotta stop with this ‘Logan curse’ nonsense.” He took another swig of his beer. “You gon’ scare that lil girl away if you don’.”

The other man frowned, hangin’ his head to stare at his shoes again.

“Pretty sure I already did.”

His brother raised his eyebrows. “She ain’ come in here again?”

“Nope.”

Jimmy made a small noise in the back of his throat, takin’ some sips. “How many days has it been?”

“Five, now.”

“Well, I seen what I seen. That girl had some eyes for you.” Clyde rolled his eyes. “Hey, no. Don’ be doin’ that. Why you think that’s so impossible?”

The younger one looked at him incredulously. “You looked at me in the last six years?”

Jimmy sighed. “If it’s this damn arm—”

“Yeah, it is! Every other man got two, I’m over here—”

“She really liked you, you know. I seen it.”

“You ain’t seen shit, you was drinkin’. Then you got in a damn bar fight! Scared her off.”

“See? Wasn’ you.”

Clyde shot him a glare. “What’d I even do if I got a lady who was interested, huh? Take her back to the trailer and read to her? I mean—” Jimmy smiled. “It’s not funny.”

“It kinda is. Just a little.”

Clyde threw his hands up. “See what I mean? An’ I can’t go takin’ the ladies out places—”

“Aw, c’mon, Clyde. There’s plenty you could do for a lady, lil brother. You just gotta bring her home an’ cook her somethin’. Women love that shit. You could fry up some bacon an’ burn the fuck outta it like you like. Then she _would_ run, though, cause it’s fuckin’ weird.”

At least that earned a smile from his brother.

Clyde went silent for a few moments, that little grin slowly fadin’ from his face. He seemed to have gained some composure again.

“Mhm, so hows it with your kid?”

“Good—well—I might be movin’ down there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I, uh, got let go from the Charlotte gig cause-a my knee.”

Clyde set down a glass he’d been about to put up on the overhead rack. “Aw, shit, bro, I’m real sorry.”

“Mhm.”

“Bummer.”

“Mhm. But maybe it’s a reason to move closer to Sadie, y’know.”

“Mhm.”

And so their conversation carried on for a lil while, ebbin’ an’ flowin’ with the nothin-exciting minutia of their lives. Jimmy eventually finished his drink and left; when the bar closed, Clyde left, too, wipin’ down the counters with a slow kinda lonely sadness. An empty bed waited; so, too, did tomorrow’s identical shift. It was fine, though—he knew there were people dealin’ with much worse. So, so much worse. When he turned and locked the doors, it was that lil moment of gratefulness that spurred him on.

 

* * *

 

 

She’d been drivin’ to the bar before curfew an’ sittin’ in its parkin’ lot a while. It felt, somehow, too risky to go in. He didn’ like her, not really, an’ ya weren’t allowed relationships at the Women’s Shelter. Not one for domestic violence survivors, at least. It was supposed to be a time for healin’ and growin’—not for findin’ new mistakes to make. And here she was, mistake-findin’ indeed.

She’d growled at herself a lil every night, feelin’ stupid for comin’ here. She didn’t even know him—so she’d back outta her spot, turn outta the lot, and drive ‘home’.

She lay starin’ at her ceiling tonight; only a thin strip of moonlight shinin’ through the windows. It fell, coincidentally, on the flip phone restin’ on the floor, and on the ‘C L’ written on a lil scrap o’ napkin. It was a while ‘til she noticed it—but when she did, she felt a certain kinda clarity. She took her phone, sat up in bed, and dialed the number.

It rang—once, twice, three times. Then, just as quick, the bravery passed. She pressed the lil red button, tossed the phone away, and rolled on her side for sleep.


End file.
